A Legionary drew his combat blade, finishing off another mortal soldier who had succumbed to mental contamination and collapsed into madness.
Such occurrences were far too frequent; the psychic pollution released by the Rangdan eroded the front lines incessantly. Not only were the mortal soldiers affected, but even the Astartes, under the extreme intensity of high-stakes combat, occasionally found their resilient minds flickering with momentary lapses.
After executing the mortal, the Legion warrior rolled to dodge a glob of plasma, ejected his empty magazine, and began his counterattack. His movements were as fluid as flowing water, the hallmark of a veteran of a hundred battles. Upon his battle-scarred power armor, the Terran-born insignia remained clearly visible.
A violent impact resounded, and the Legion warrior fell.
A large-caliber solid projectile shattered the ceramite, piercing the skull while tearing away the tactical helmet. A veteran of a hundred wars had fallen; his brain exploded, his heavy body tumbled to the ground, and his limbs twitched as they executed the brain's final commands while his superhuman organs rapidly failed.
From conquering Terra to campaigning across the galaxy, decades of glorious service and countless honors ended here, falling silently in this moment. Even for an Astartes, life was fleeting on such a violent battlefield.
The mortals erupted in terrified screams. The death of the Astartes responsible for this node meant the xenos would launch a probing charge. Sure enough, figures swarmed in the distance as xenos thralls and Rangdan crawled out from their lines, initiating another assault.
The Auxilia raised their lasguns, their fingers trembling as they pulled the triggers, instinctively focusing their fire on the Rangdan warriors. Unfortunately, without an Astartes to hold the line, the Rangdan warriors were emboldened; the mortals found it difficult even to aim at these xenos.
The elite Rangdan warriors rose from the trenches one after another, drawing fire for their kin and pinning down the movements of the human defensive line. Irrepressible tremors appeared on the numb faces of the soldiers; as the Rangdan drew closer, the mental contamination stirred even deeper fears.
"Do not panic!" A muffled roar erupted from behind, dispelling the mortals' dread.
As bolters roared with a rhythmic thump-thump, the shields of the elite xenos flickered and their movements were hindered, only to be immediately overloaded by the concentrated lasgun fire of the mortals.
Bang! Bang!
Two precision shots blasted circular holes through the biological armor. Viscous biomass spilled onto the ground, and the operators within were shredded to pieces. The riot on the defensive line was quelled once more; without a focal point for their attack, the Rangdan charge was suppressed again.
A Legion Apothecary arrived, his Narthecium extending a serrated mechanical arm to cut through ceramite armor and flesh to retrieve the gene-seed. Such scenes had occurred every moment over the past twenty days, becoming a daily routine that was heavily suffocating.
Recovering the gene-seed was the only thing the Apothecary could do. He then placed the helmet back upon his brother's neck, ensuring he would not depart in too undignified a manner. As the cousins from the Fifth Legion arrived to reinforce the line, the Apothecary departed with hurried steps to recover the gene-seeds of other fallen brothers.
The war was dire; the Legion's casualty rate was skyrocketing, to the point where they had begun pulling from the Fifth Legion to fill the gaps. Though it felt somewhat rebellious, the Apothecary silently wished for a Legion more specialized in defense and trench warfare to arrive and rotate these two Legions off the line.
"All units, take note: reinforcements are imminent."
The Apothecary's heart jolted. Though he had heard the Legion Master say these words countless times recently, this time felt different. There was an unprecedented surge of excitement and a hint of relieved ease in the commander's voice.
He snapped his head up, quickly orienting himself toward the Mandeville Point within the system. Sure enough, ripples of the Warp were surging. How is this possible? The Apothecary was stunned, wondering which Legion was bold enough to attempt this.
The Mandeville Point was the safe Warp jump point within a system, designed to avoid gravitational disturbances and astronomical disasters. Because of this, the Rangdan fleet had gathered a massive force there to prevent any Imperial fleet ambushes.
The Apothecary's pupils dilated. The Warp ripples at the Mandeville Point were expanding rapidly, swaying like waves on water. Then, a voice as heavy as stone echoed across the Imperial vox channel:
"Field command, upload combat data."
His own Legion Master could not hide his excitement, responding respectfully: "Information link established. Combat data upload commencing."
The Warp fluctuations expanded at extreme speed. A massive warship—no, a vessel of such colossal proportions should not merely be called a "warship." The dark golden corner it revealed was large enough to dock a hundred ships; its volume was staggering.
The Rangdan fleet reacted. The fleet's weapons fired in unison, beams of light piercing the void in an attempt to block the behemoth within the Warp. Lance beams struck the shields like rain falling into an ocean; heavy torpedoes rushed the shields only to be shredded by dense point-defense fire, unable to close the distance.
"Abandon the defensive positions! It is the Phalanx of the Imperial Fists!"
The Rangdan Warmaster hurriedly issued the order. Through intelligence comparison, it realized exactly who had arrived. That giant space vessel's structure exceeded the scale of a starship; it was a mobile heavy star fortress. The garrisoned defense fleet was no match for that titan; it would only take one broadside to tear an entire fleet apart.
The Rangdan abandoned their attack. The mixed fleet engaged their engines, fleeing the Mandeville Point at maximum speed.
But it was too late!
The portion of the Phalanx that had entered realspace opened fire with all batteries. Ultra-heavy lances and macro-cannons fired in unison, their muzzles erupting with blinding brilliance.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Space is silent, but the witnesses felt as if the thundering roar of the salvo completed itself in their minds through the vibrations and light of the ships. Almost instantly, the shields of the fleeing xenos ships overloaded. Armor plates were crushed by high-speed projectiles, and internal structures were flung out like splattered organs.
The fireworks of the ships' explosions were bright and dazzling. The Phalanx's first volley annihilated a small fleet; its power shook the heavens!
"Reinforcements are here!" The ground troops snapped awake. The Tech-Priests broadcast the images via holoprojectors to the Auxilia to bolster their spirits.
To the Auxilia, numb from the quagmire of war, a spring welled up in their parched hearts, and tears of "hope" flowed from their eyes. Twenty Terran days of struggling, tortured physically by incessant xenos attacks and mentally eroded by psychic pollution, was all for the sake of witnessing this moment—
The Master of the Seventh Legion, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, Rogal Dorn, helming his unstoppable Great Ship, had torn through the Rangdan defensive line.
The massive frame of the Phalanx stood like a pillar holding up the sky. The Astartes were also heartened; the Legion warriors finally breathed a sigh of relief. The Seventh Legion had arrived. They were masters of defensive warfare. The Battle of Shana was about to enter a new phase.
The fist-clenched Legion emblem was etched into everyone's hearts. The Phalanx's engines flared to full power; a new star ignited within the system, rivaling the sun in brilliance. It was hunting. Its all-angle batteries crushed every living thing within its firing arc, delivering the light of destruction to any enemy blocking its path with an indomitable posture.
As the giant ship disrupted the enemy formation, more Warp ripples lit up, and the Imperial Fists' fleet entered realspace in force.
"Centering on the Mandeville Point, the fleet will divide into five task forces: the First through Third fleets will push forward, utilizing mobile tactics to pin down the Rangdan main fleet."
Dorn sat within the high tower of the Phalanx. High-power auspex arrays surveyed the entire system, feeding back information summaries. He wore golden power armor and a red cloak, with a massive chainsword hanging at his waist. His calm face remained expressionless, eyes lowered toward the holographic tactical table.
The Seventh Son of the Emperor, Rogal Dorn, was never one for smiles; solemnity was his hallmark. The Primarch in golden armor stood there like an insurmountable mountain, a monolith that could not be moved.
His deep eyes reflected the holographic data, scanning the naval engagements and ground combat reports at a glance: "The Fourth Fleet will break through the support line and establish a secure corridor with the Forge World to facilitate the deployment of Legion warriors."
"The Fifth Fleet will hold position, using the Phalanx as the core to prevent the xenos from retaking the Mandeville Point and to receive the arrival of other Legions."
The Primarch dictated and operated the holographic commands with both hands. In just three seconds, he constructed a tactic adapted to the current battlefield environment.
"Transferring command to the Primarch." The fleets of the Fifth and Nineteenth Legions, which had been stalling the Rangdan, broke off from their guerrilla skirmishes to regroup. Their commanders immediately yielded fleet command without a moment's hesitation. With the arrival of one of the Empire's most authoritative figures, they were willing and eager to await his orders.
Dorn nodded in silence. The holographic map was dense with ship signatures; his forces were at an absolute disadvantage. One full Legion plus two battered ones amounted to over five hundred ships of various sizes, while the Rangdan had a thousand combat vessels and a Battle Moon. The xenos knew the performance of human warships well; this battle was perilous.
Aside from the Astartes Legions, the human side held no advantage. They needed a breaking point.
"Sigismund." The silent mountain spoke, calling upon the member of the Templar Brethren.
A blonde warrior stepped forward from the orderly ranks, holding a greatsword. With a high bridge to his nose and deep-set eyes, he responded to his Legion Master's call. The Primarch lowered his finger, pointing at a massive target slowly drifting toward the fleet.